“Everybody will just overanalyze everything.”
“Wonder what that would be like,” Lucy muttered. “But what’s this got to do with David and Trent McKinnon?”
“I think it’s time I gave up on Trent McKinnon.”
He would never love her. Admitting it felt like having her insides forced out.
“So he wanted to ask out the blue-haired girl?” Lucy said. “No biggie. He just doesn’t know you well enough, yet.”
“We’ve spent hours together in the library!”
“Yes, because nothing says seduction more than a high school library.”
“The blue-haired girl could have seduced him in the library.”
Lucy opened her mouth and then closed it. “Ryan’s right. He’s an asshole.”
“Why? Because he’s not attracted to the geeky smart girl with half a face? That’d mean ninety-nine percent of the male population are assholes.” She felt numb, tapped out. She’d used a year’s supply of angst in one hour.
“I think you underestimate the male population.”
“It’s got to be bad when the lesbian tries to bolster my faith in men,” Fiona said.
“Can we please stop referring to me as the lesbian? It can’t be just me, right?”
“Uh, I have no idea.”
“It’s what I get for coming out in high school. Could be years before these other girls catch up.” She slumped in her chair and spoke to the ceiling. “I mean seriously, there’s got to be at least one.”
“We’re pathetic,” Fiona said with a huge sigh. “Crossing our fingers that we get one.”
FI
Fi was sitting on the couch—the damned couch—when Ryan came home from school, dropped a stack of homework in her lap, and sat down across from her.
She wanted to lash out at him, sitting there in his uniform, all sweaty and dirt-smeared, but she held back. Instead, she picked up the bulk of homework, weighing it in her hands. “Please tell me this is for the whole week.”
“Just today,” he said.
Fi scanned the pages from English, along with the unfamiliar writing in the margins. “She’s already picked the topic. And given me an assignment.”
“Who?”
“Lucy Daines, worst partner ever.”
“On the English paper? What book are y’all doing?”
“Faulkner, apparently,” Fi said, still reading through Lucy’s highlights, notes, and instructions. “The two short stories.”
“Trina Simmons and I are doing The Red Badge of Courage,” Ryan said. “We started today at lunch. It’s a big part of the grade.”
She gave her unsympathetic brother a look before tossing the stack of homework onto the coffee table. “I. Am. Going. Insane.” She let her head flop backward onto the armrest. “If I’d just moved back in position. If I hadn’t gone for that ball none of this would have happened. Life would be normal.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said after a moment, “but you can’t change it. Might as well look on the bright side.”
“Which would be?”
“You only have to deal with Lucy Daines on paper,” he said, nodding to Fi’s stack of homework. “No face-to-face.”
“True.”
“You get to watch Cupcake Wars nonstop.”
“I’m sick of Cupcake Wars. Like, totally sick of it.” She pointed to the wall directly across from her. “Do you know there’s a crack in the plaster over there that looks like the east coast of Florida?”
“Wow, you are bad off.” He studied her. “When’s the last time you, like, moved?”
“This morning. Bath.”
“Okay, time for an intervention,” Ryan said with a laugh. “Come out with me tonight.”
“Right.” She couldn’t remember the last time they’d done something alone, without their parents or friends. She pointed to her cast. “Slight mobility problem.”
“I’ll help you,” said Ryan. “Anyway, I’m not doing anything major—just open mic night at Otherlands.”
There was a coffee shop about five minutes’ drive away, but she’d never gone in. “That grungy place?” It looked run-down, with an old, hand-painted sign out front.
“It’s got character. This open mic thing’s supposed to be, uh, unique is how I heard it.”
Fi vaguely remembered Trent mentioning going there, although he never said anything about an open mic night. “Who told you that?”
“Girl who works there.”
Her eyes narrowed on her brother. “What girl?”
“A girl,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Do you want to come or not?”
Fi looked in the direction of the kitchen. “Where is everybody?”
“Mom went to the grocery store, I think. Dad’s still at work.”
Fi figured she wasn’t the coffee-shop type, what with her lack of tribal scarves and ironic T-shirts. Anyway, she never had the luxury to just hang out. School and lacrosse took up all her time.
But she didn’t think she was an anti-coffee shop kind of person, either. Plus, no parents meant no one to stop her.
She pushed herself upright. “Go shower, then help me get to the bathroom when you’re done.”
When they got to Otherlands, Fi clutched Ryan’s arm and hobbled up the ramp to the back door. It was weird needing his help so obviously and publicly.
The crowd moved aside at the sight of her Day-Glo cast. “People are staring,” she muttered.
“It’s just your imagination.”
Mismatched tables and chairs crammed nearly every inch of the place. A beaded curtain behind the bar barely disguised a bunch of boxes, crates, and dirty mugs. Lines of poetry were painted across the walls and on the concrete floor.
“Everybody in here is pierced and tattooed,” she whispered, scanning the crowd. “Or has those giant holes in their ears.”
“Not everybody.” At the counter, Ryan leaned toward a tiny girl with short, light blond hair streaked in blue. She smiled when she saw him, then she moved to the side so the other guy back there—a tall guy with tattoo vines covering his arms—could take orders. Ryan gestured between the two girls. “Gwen, this is my sister, Fi.”
Wiping her hands on a towel, Gwen reached a thin arm across the counter. “Hey, Fi. Nice to meet you.”
Fi shook the waif’s hand, worried she might break it.
“Can I get y’all something?” Gwen asked. Looking at Ryan, she asked, “Decaf?”
He nodded and looked to Fi. She read the menu overhead but had no clue what to order. “Something not too coffee-ish?”
Gwen laughed. “Sure.”
A few minutes later, Gwen handed over a large mug filled with milky foam. Fi pointed to her cast. “I need to sit somewhere.”
Ryan nodded, and they both surveyed the shop. Every table was full.
Fi began to panic slightly. This little bit of activity made her foot ache. She was dizzy and out of breath. If she felt like this after three weeks, what would her game be like after a year?
Ryan gestured to the full tables. “There’s nowhere.”
“Seriously,” she whispered, leaning in. “I need to sit.”
He pulled back to study her before scanning the café again. Finally, he clutched her arm and walked her to a table for four, where two guys around their age sat. They had dark, wavy hair and looked about the same height.
“Y’all mind if she sits?” Ryan asked, pointing to the two empty chairs and then at Fi’s cast.
One of them had nice, olive skin, the other was fair like Fi and Ryan. The fair one stood, pulling out the chair just in front of her and gesturing to it. “Not at all.”
At the same time, Tan Guy reached over to Fair Guy’s chair and pulled it toward him, closing the distance between the two boys.
Fi considered pointing out that broken ankles weren’t contagious. Instead, she looked to the nice one, who still stood near, offering help. “Thanks,” she said.
Ryan pulled the remaining empty chair toward her and pointed to
her cast. “You should keep it elevated.”
“Where will you sit?” she asked.
Her brother gestured behind him, back toward the blue-haired girl. “I can hang out there.”
So much for brother-sister time. “Is this the mysterious study group?”
Giving a half smile, he said, “Be back in a bit,” and left her with the two strangers.
Fi wasn’t sure what to do. Should she check her texts or look otherwise busy? The place was packed with people talking loudly, even shouting across the room, yet the two boys at her little table silently looked into space. Quite deliberately not at her.
She was studying the little tabletop menu when Fair Guy pointed to the corner, where a microphone was sandwiched between two brown plants. “Here for open mic night?” he asked her.
“Oh. Uh, yeah—I guess so.”
Fi and Fair Guy stared at the personless microphone for several long, painful, silent moments. The boy shifted his gaze, looking to where his fingers toyed with the edges of an old book in front of him. Then he smiled and reached a hand across. “I’m Marcus.” He looked over his shoulder to Tan Guy. “And my antisocial brother’s name is Jackson.”
“Fi,” she replied, taking Marcus’s hand. Jackson narrowed his eyes when they touched, like she was diseased.
“Fee?” Marcus asked.
“F-I. Short for Fiona.” She pointed toward Ryan, now bent so far over the counter he risked falling onto the other side. He was saying something to the girl—what was her name? Gail? Gwen? “My antisocial brother nicknamed me when I was little. It just stuck.”
Marcus glanced over at Ryan before nodding toward Jackson. “We’re twins, too.”
Fi looked between the two boys, who, outside of the wavy black hair, looked nothing alike. Marcus was creamy-skinned and slight. He had light brown eyes to Jackson’s green. They seemed roughly the same height—close to six feet, she’d guess—but Jackson had football player shoulders. Tall, dark, and handsome, her mother would say. Too bad he was such a jerk.
Fi shook her head. “We’re not twins. Well, Irish twins, but that doesn’t count.”
“What’s an Irish twin?” Marcus asked, his head tilted cutely to the side.
“We’re ten months apart.”
“Ah.” He laughed. Jackson sighed noticeably.
Marcus shoulder-nudged his brother, but kept his eyes on Fi. “Y’all go to West?”
“No, Union. You?”
“Homeschool.”
She’d never known anyone who was homeschooled. “That’s cool,” she lied.
Another awkward silence threatened as Fi noticed that, in addition to being nice, Marcus was a creep-up-on-you-slowly kind of cute. Soft hazel-brown eyes and smooth, fair skin, offset by that jet-black hair. She stopped caring what Jackson was doing. “So, what happens at open mic night?” she asked.
It only took half a minute to explain, but it was the perfect opening for everything else. He asked about her cast, which led to a surprisingly heartache-free discussion of lacrosse. He didn’t know much about it, a refreshing break from Trent.
“It was created by Native Americans,” she said. “They used it to train their men as warriors.”
“I just finished a book about that. Kind of,” he said, giving a quick summary about how different tribes reacted to early settlers.
His hazel eyes lit up when he spoke, and his whole face smiled. She’d never been so captivated by the struggle of native peoples.
She talked about getting her grades up in time for college applications. She told him about Northwestern.
“Hey! Jackson’s applying there, too.” He poked his brother in the ribs.
Jackson acknowledged this with a brief nod. Fi nodded, too—then turned back to Marcus.
“What’s the book?” she asked, pointing to the dog-eared paperback on the table.
“Selected Essays of Jean-Paul Sartre.” He held it up, showing her the cover. “If no one went onstage, I was going to read from it.”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“Seriously. Look.” Flopping it open, he read, “One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one’s death, one dies one’s life.” He laughed and put the book back on the table. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Probably better for everyone I didn’t follow through.”
“You like to read?”
“Love it.” He’d just reread the Lord of the Rings trilogy and told her some jokes she didn’t get. Even though he was homeschooled, they followed the local school curriculum, so they talked about some of the books they’d read for English this year—the Faulkner short stories, The Sun Also Rises, The Grapes of Wrath.
An hour later, ten people had taken the microphone and left it, but neither of them noticed. Fi had no idea whether Jackson had paid attention—she’d tuned him out.
She turned when Ryan nudged her shoulder. “Mom just called. She’s freaking that you’re out.”
Crap. “It was your idea,” she said.
“We gotta go. Let me say bye to Gwen.” Then he walked away, completely forgetting she couldn’t walk on her own.
Fi pushed herself up. “Sorry.” She gestured to her leg. “Usually he’s a little nicer, but could you, uh . . .”
“Sure.” Marcus got up, offering his arm.
Jackson stood up so suddenly that the table and mugs shook. He came to her other side, his arm similarly outstretched. “Here, take mine,” he said.
The boys shared a look before Marcus sighed and stepped away. Having no other choice, Fi took Jackson’s arm. With Marcus a step behind, the three walked across the coffee shop.
When Fi got to her brother, she grabbed him and muttered an awkward thanks to Jackson. He shrugged and walked back to their table.
Marcus watched as he walked away. “My brother’s usually a little nicer, too.”
Ryan was still with the blue-haired girl, so Fi wasn’t sure what to do next. In a matter of seconds, Ryan would remember their mother and drag Fi home. But she liked this boy, with his brainy book references and offbeat sense of humor. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”
“Wait,” Marcus said. “Can I have your number?”
She rattled off her number so quickly, she hoped she didn’t look desperate. He typed it in his phone and pushed send. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“So you’ll have mine, too,” he said, smiling everywhere.
Ryan finally noticed his crippled sister and the boy with her phone number. “Thanks for bringing her over, man.”
“My pleasure,” Marcus said.
“Right,” Ryan said, brow furrowed. “We need to go.”
Fi pointed to her arm linked around his. “I’ve been waiting.”
She said good-bye to Marcus, who told her he’d call, and she didn’t even mind that Ryan grunted under the awkward bulk of her weight as they walked outside. All the way down the ramp, to the car, and on the drive home, she barely noticed the cast or the pain or her brother’s curious glances.
His name—Marcus. Marcus King—swirled through her brain on endless repeat.
As she cradled the hand Marcus had shaken, Fi asked Ryan, “Do we have Lord of the Rings?”
“In the attic, I think.”
“How long is it?”
“Three books, like, four hundred pages each. Why?”
“I’ve got all this time now,” she said. “I think I’ll read it.”
She hoped she wouldn’t finish it before he called.
TWELFTH GRADE
JANUARY
FIONA
When Fiona got home from school, her dad was sitting at the kitchen table. He held up a thick envelope.
“Is that—” she asked.
His grin was huge. “From Northwestern. Mailman just dropped it off.”
She took the envelope like it might explode, turning it back and forth in her hand.
“Open it,” he said. “I’m dying here.”
She
slid a finger under the seal and pulled out the five or so papers folded tightly inside. Her dad read over her shoulder. Two seconds later, he whooped, spun her around, and hugged her like she was little again.
“You got in!” He called upstairs. “Caroline! She got in!”
Fiona sank in the chair and reread the letter twice. Early decision. Classes available in both the creative writing program and the music school. Requirements to maintain the scholarship.
She held up the letter. “I got a partial scholarship.”
Her father whooped even louder. “Caroline, get the hell down here!”
Her mother came down the stairs, dripping wet in her robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. At the same time, Ryan walked through the back door, his soccer uniform clinging to every part of his body it touched. Grass, sweat, and dirt smeared the rest.
“What’s going on?” they asked in unison.
When her dad told them, Fiona was swamped in hugs of varying degrees of moisture. Her mom started to cry. Her dad commanded Ryan to shower and made reservations at Folk’s Folly. Fiona sat back and reread her letter five more times.
“Can Lucy come to dinner?” she asked.
“Of course. David, too?”
Oops. “Yeah. David, too.”
What was with her, lately? What kind of person forgets her boyfriend? A few weeks ago, she’d gotten sidetracked by a song she was working on and forgotten all about their date. She kept zoning out during his exhaustive Monday morning football analytics. She even might have blanked out on his birthday, if her calendar alert hadn’t saved her.
A few hours later, the Doyles, along with Lucy, David, and Gwen—Fiona had forgotten about her, too—sat around a table loaded with steaks, enormous baked potatoes, and spinach so drenched in cheese and butter Mrs. Doyle said it couldn’t possibly have any nutritional value.
After five toasts, her dad looked across the table at Lucy. “Heard from anywhere yet, Luce?”
Lucy shook her head. “Keeping my fingers crossed for NYU. Boston College as a backup.”
“We never could get the Yankee out of you.”
“Not that you didn’t try.”
“Not that we didn’t try.” Her dad turned to David. “What about you?”
Everything That Makes You Page 6
